Re-Possessed
by The Mad Fangirl
Summary: Three-Ian-Humorverse fic following the S2 finale "Ubique." Guess who's back to celebrate the end of the season? It's *not* the obvious answer. Plus, a comics favorite makes his bid for the small screen, and much, much more.


Longer Summary: Welcome to the Ubique installment of the ubiquitous Three- Ian-Humorverse fic series. Like last year, the characters are having a season-end party, but without Kenny's direct involvement, it's not quite so formal. Hey, by the way, guess who's back, back again? It's sure not Slim Shady. What's that? No, not Kenny either...that'd be way too easy for you :). Enjoy, and let me know how ya like it!  
  
Title: Re-Possessed  
  
Spoilers: Through the Season 2 finale, "Ubique," the 8-26-02 episode.  
  
Author: The Mad Fangirl  
  
Archive: Wherever, but let me know.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are owned by other people and I make no money from their shameless exploitation.  
  
A/N: must kill...must kill...KILL...GET OUT OF MY HEAD!! ...Um, where was I?  
  
* * *  
  
As there was no mass resurrection this year, and the mastermind of last year's bash was just one side of comatose, the season-end party was left to Ian 3. He'd gone fairly informal, with a catered barbecue set up on the grounds and guests wandering through. Perhaps if renewal were announced, they would have a more formal party later, with Irons presiding, and perhaps not.  
  
Somewhere near a sliding glass door, Sara Pezzini, Witchblade red and restored, stood chatting with a Nottingham who wore loose hair and a full beard. He was the original Season One version, from prior to the previous year's reversal of time, and his girlfriend Amanda was nearby, having left to procure drinks from the grizzled Arnold Buck, who was tending bar. Ian One and Sara, though, had hardly noticed when she'd ambled off, engrossed as they were in their argument.  
  
"He is!"  
  
"Oh, cut it out, he is not!"  
  
"I am telling you that Gabriel is still possessed."  
  
"C'mon. I talked to him. He's okay. He's Gabe."  
  
"He has the scars."  
  
"He was Irons when they did the gauntlet thing - hey, I admit that. I was there! But he's not now, I swear."  
  
"Hey, Ian One, Pezzini? You wanna put your money where your mouths are?"  
  
"Jake?"  
  
Sara's blonde rookie leaned against a mansion support pillar, a wad of cash in his hand. Danny Woo stood next to him, cap perched jauntily atop his head of straight black hair.  
  
"I'm training the rookie in the fine art of the betting pool," Woo explained.  
  
"If it helps, Pez, it's running about 3:2 that Gabe is still possessed. You got good odds there."  
  
Pez gave him the eyebrow-climbing-to-hairline routine, but the rookie didn't flinch. So eventually, she reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a twenty.  
  
"Twenty dollars on Gabe."  
  
Ian matched her pledge. "Twenty says Father has pulled a "Prelude to a Kiss.""  
  
"Okay. Now we wait."  
  
"For what, exactly," Pez said, skeptically.  
  
"Well, we figure we give him a few months to give himself away, and if it doesn't happen by then, the nay-sayers get the pot. But any Irons-like stuff has to be witnessed by Danny or me to be valid."  
  
"Mm. Okay. Sounds fair enough," Pez allowed, and headed off with Ian One onto the mansion's grounds.  
  
As Pez and Ian One wandered away, they could hear Jake murmur to Danny, "Prelude to a what?"  
  
"Chick movie."  
  
"Oh."  
  
* * *  
  
A young-looking, brown-haired girl in a rose-hued sundress walked down the mansion hallway, on her way to join the festivities. She seemed normal enough; certainly no one you'd guess was a four-hundred-year-old Immortal, save for one detail. On her shoulder perched a severed hand.  
  
The hand raised a finger and tapped Bola's shoulder in Morse code. "I *said* I was sorry for shooting at you, Thing. I thought you were the other hand."  
  
Tap. Tap.  
  
"Yes, I know he had a metal wrist cuff, but it was late and dark."  
  
Tappity.  
  
"And yes, I know you were carrying a torch for him, and you don't meet many other hands, but believe me, you're better off! Not only was - sorry, IS - Kenneth a bad, bad man, from all accounts, but he's not a hand anymore. And, Thing, I've also heard that he sleeps with just about anything that moves, so it's not like you would have gotten any sort of commitment out of the man."  
  
Tappity tap.  
  
Bola sighed. "Yes, I suppose that does mean that you still have a chance. But, Thing, I ..." Her voice trailed off at the telltale buzzing sensation that told her another of her kind was near. Reflexively, she flattened herself against the wall before relaxing at Amanda's voice. Still, it sounded like a private, not to mention juicy, conversation, so before revealing herself, she peeked around the wall.  
  
Amanda had her arms wrapped around the svelte, long-haired Gabriel Bowman from the back, as though she had just surprised him. "Remember that night in Madagascar?" she asked, voice low and sultry. "How about we slip off to a bedroom right now and go for an encore?"  
  
"I would love to," Gabriel replied, sinking back into her embrace, "but I've never been to Madagascar. Bet you were there with Kenneth Irons, though, huh?"  
  
"Dammit!" Amanda let go and Gabriel turned around.  
  
"You've got your money on 'possessed,' don't you? Hey, it was a nice try. Still, I don't see Danny or Jake around, so it wouldn't have done you any good."  
  
Amanda snorted. "Yeah, well, they'd've been there when it counted. See you around, loverboy. I'm gonna see if Arnold can fix me up another mimosa. Oh, by the way, hi Bola," she added. The girl stepped out at that.  
  
"How'd you know it was me?"  
  
"'Cause Adam's over there," she said, gesturing to a tall, thin, attractive man juggling a dark beer and a plate of chicken wings.  
  
"Oh. Makes sense."  
  
Ian One then appeared behind Amanda to collect her, and Bola turned, as she thought she'd heard her name. What she found was a middle-aged Mafioso who blinked at her quizzically.  
  
"You wanted something?" she asked.  
  
"Actually, I said 'Bella,'" Tommy Gallo replied, motioning to Pez, who seemed at loose ends. As the detective headed over, he continued, "but you know, I'd been meaning to look you up too. I've got a vacancy in my organization for someone with decent aim. A protégée in the art of the hit, as it were."  
  
"What happened to your last one?" the girl asked.  
  
"Bella here fried him."  
  
"Hi, Killer," Pez said, joining them. "You know that was an accident."  
  
"Yeah, you meant to shoot him." Pez shrugged and nodded. "Well, whatever," Tommy ran a hand over his greasy hair. "How about it, kiddo? We got great health and dental, though I'll admit the retirement plan sucks."  
  
"Well, I did a spot of bootlegging in the Twenties," Bola replied, Pez favoring her with Stare #3 (eyebrows down but eyes wide). "But that was plenty. I'm afraid I've had enough of the Mafia for awhile yet."  
  
Gallo shrugged. "Your funeral." To the clinking of a gauntlet, he said, "What? It's a figure of speech!"  
  
Then a strong tug on her arm pulled Bola away from that conversation. She looked over to find...a somewhat distressed Mijah Woo, who managed to drag her some distance.  
  
"Hey, Bola," the girl said, "Can you teach me to shoot? I have got to get some kind of self-defense training."  
  
"Sure I can, but why is it so urgent?"  
  
Mijah sighed. "I'm serial killer bait! At first, I thought it was just Uncle Danny vs. Dalack, but I've been hit on by five Isaacs at this party so far!"  
  
As if summoned, one of the first season's matched, odd-eyed killers drifted close with a tray of hors d' oeuvres. Leaning in close to Mijah, he murmured, "Everyone has a fantasy. What's yours?"  
  
"See!"  
  
"Back off," Bola said, fingering a large semiautomatic, and he did, bobbling the tray of stuffed mushrooms as he went.  
  
"The thing to remember with serial killers," came a toneless voice from behind them, "is that they probably want to kill you too. Therefore, you can do whatever you want to them. The trick is doing unto them before they do unto you."  
  
"Oh, hi Wednesday!" Mijah said. Wednesday Addams nodded at both of them. "Well, between the two of you, I ought to be able to get some pointers on how to take care of myself."  
  
"Yes," Wednesday replied, "But what we really need, I think, is a live subject for demonstration." She reached out a hand and caught another wandering Isaac by the wrist. He struggled, but could not break her grip. "Now, I understand this mansion has a firing range?"  
  
The three girls wandered off, and Gallo looked at Pez. "What was that all about?"  
  
Sara, whose hearing was considerably better, just replied, "Girl talk." Then an unfamiliar man who didn't know her, but appeared to recognize Tommy, interrupted them. He resembled Nottingham just the slightest bit, but his hair was straighter and longer, his features more Asiatic, and his suit, as much as his acquaintance with Gallo, said "mobbed up." Their eyes met...and the Witchblade went insane. In an instant, she was armored and fighting to control the trembling sword that had sprouted from a metal fist. The man backed away, and Pez gained enough leeway to thrust the sword into the grass.  
  
"What the Hell..."  
  
"Don't look at me," came a smoky voice from behind her, the Devil, naturally, sipping what smelled like a mint julep. His associate, the demon/cop Zeke Stone, lingered nearby, chatting with Vicky Po. Pez just rolled her eyes and shrugged, turning back to the two Mafiosi, Gallo and...  
  
"Um, didn't catch your name..." she said to the rather pretty man who'd given the Witchblade conniptions.  
  
"Jackie. Jackie Estacado." He flashed a million-watt smile. "I've been trying to get Uncle Tommy to hook us up forever. I've got to be on the show."  
  
"And this has something to do with why I'm currently rusting on the lawn?" Pez said, concentrating and managing to get the blade retracted and the helmet off.  
  
"Yeah. See, I'm the Darkness."  
  
"The who now?"  
  
"The Darkness. The one, the original, the *real* male counterpart to the Witchblade. Not some lame-ass lance, not some male sword...that sounds wrong. Anyway, check this out." He knelt on the lawn, forming a small area of shade, and Pez clanked down next to him. Inside his shadow, a fanged demonic creature with glowing green eyes materialized, grinning.  
  
"Go Jackie!" it cried. "Jackie rules! He's the best! He..."  
  
"Sheesh," Jackie muttered, standing as the little guy shrieked and vanished. "Cool, huh?"  
  
"Kinda," Pez replied, "but we've barely got cash for this." She indicated the armor that she just couldn't seem to get rid of. "You'd blow the effects budget sky high!"  
  
"Hey, I've got cash, if that's the snag." Gallo broke in. "It's not like I'm in this business for my health."  
  
"Okay," Pez replied, "but I'm not the person to talk to, really. You've got to head down to Atlanta and convince the folks at TNT to let you in on the action. And I can't believe I just used the phrase 'in on the action' in a sentence."  
  
"Well, how 'bout it, Uncle Tommy? Should we go make them an offer they can't refuse?"  
  
"Sure. Lemme get some stuff set up and we can head on South." Gallo looked at Pez and shrugged. "Family. What're you gonna do?"  
  
* * *  
  
Elsewhere, at a table beneath a wide umbrella, a slew of conspiracy theorists sat munching gourmet lamb-burgers and sipping lemonade of the hard or un-spiked variety, depending on preference. A man with green glasses, who'd been dodging a particular pig for a while until she'd realized she was tailing the wrong Kermit, leaned forward and asked an over- tall ex-Fed, "So, you agree with Munch and me about the Lincoln thing, right, Mulder?"  
  
"Heck, yeah," the man replied, his arm around a red-blonde woman who wore an amused and tolerant expression. "But why should we wonder? Hey, Jack!" he hailed, and the Presidential shade turned from contemplation of the party, shielding his eyes.  
  
"I, ah, I always forget how bright this world can be," he said. "I really should've brought glasses,"  
  
Wordlessly, Kermit slipped a spare pair of green shades from his pocket and tossed them to the late chief executive, who caught them and slipped them on. "Huh. Wasn't sure that'd work."  
  
"So, how 'bout it," said a man with salt and pepper hair and slightly pocked skin. "What's the scuttlebutt from beyond about the Lincoln deal?"  
  
"I, ah, I actually couldn't tell you," Kennedy replied. "Abe doesn't talk to me much. He doesn't really like me."  
  
"Oh, do tell," Detective John Munch said, leaning forward.  
  
"Well, was it my fault that Mary Todd..." but the dead president was cut off by a new arrival.  
  
"Hey guys," Gabriel hailed. "Nice day, huh. So, you all got any plans later?"  
  
"Well, I was going to take Scully to see 'Feardotcom,' " Mulder said. "We could make it a group outing."  
  
"You think something like that could happen in real life?" Munch said. "Some website actually affecting people to that degree?"  
  
"Hello!" Gabriel replied. "It just did! Those guys completely stole my idea!"  
  
"You mean Irons' idea," Mulder said neutrally.  
  
"Yeah. What'd I say?"  
  
Mulder looked around the open area. Woo and McCartey were obviously present, and just as obviously out of earshot. "Damn." He looked at Scully, who shrugged apologetically.  
  
Kermit and Munch traded glances.  
  
"You think there's still time to get in on that betting pool?"  
  
"Let's find out."  
  
* * *  
  
With Ian One and Amanda relaxing in the company of Methos, (or Adam Pierson, as he was known on this occasion,) it was distressingly easy for the two other Nottinghams to find and corner their progenitor. As soon as they found him, the two look-alikes began to argue as only siblings could, at what for them was a distressingly loud volume, though it would be considered merely a loud murmur from anyone else.  
  
"Hold it!" he said, putting up a hand. "One at a time. Also, since Father is back, albeit somewhat sidelined, shouldn't you two be going to him with your quarrels now?"  
  
"He doesn't care," Ian 3 replied, "and if you'll recall, 2.0 here is the one that never listens to him anyway."  
  
"That is true. So, what are you two fighting over this time?"  
  
Ian the Third shot his middle brother a glare. "He's been killing my girlfriends."  
  
"Who, me?" the clean-shaven Ian 2.0 said, blinking innocently.  
  
"Aras vanished very quickly once he showed an interest in her, and now Lucrezia's missing as well!"  
  
"Well, they were relatively...how should I put this..."  
  
"Evil incarnate?" Amanda broke in.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"There, you see!" Ian 2.0 said. "If I did kill them, which I didn't, then I would have been doing him a favor. They were evil women; wouldn't that make me good?"  
  
"Of all of Father's quotables, you had to latch onto that one?"  
  
"It's catchy."  
  
"Well, I know one way we can settle this, since they were extremely malevolent creatures." Leaning over, Ian One tapped the Devil on the shoulder. Said worthy turned and considered him.  
  
"Hello, Mr. Nottingham. Anything I can do for you?"  
  
"Yes, I was wondering if Aras or Lucrezia Borgia had recently showed up in your domain courtesy of my brother here."  
  
"Well, they have both in fact recently become my guests," the Prince of Darkness replied. "How so, I couldn't say, or rather, I prefer not to. Why pass up a ready opportunity to sow discord, after all?"  
  
"Wonderful," Ian One sighed.  
  
"So all I know is that my exes are enduring some form of indescribable torment," Ian 3 said. "Well, they did both try to kill my true love, so I suppose I can live with that. I wonder, though, what they must be experiencing now."  
  
* * *  
  
Meanwhile, in the New Jersey annex of Hell, which took the form of a supernaturally sealed tract home off of a nondescript cul-de-sac, the werewolf Lupo and the cross-dressing demon Del Toro, a.k.a. Madame Sesostris, welcomed three new arrivals with a bag of stale Chex Mix. It was, after all, Hell. Both beings were encouraged by the nature of the newcomers; they were all extremely attractive women. Not only had Aras and Lucrezia ended up in their corner of the Inferno, but also had Christina, Irons' one-time henchwoman.  
  
"Hey, ladies," Lupo began, attempting to begin a conversation, but Aras merely replied, "Stuff it, dog-boy," and the blonde Lucrezia added, smiling sweetly, "We don't date outside our species."  
  
"Well, there's always..." Del Toro began, and then looked down at the ridiculous fortune-teller's outfit in which he'd been stuck. "Oh, never mind."  
  
"Wow," Christina said, "This is Hell? Two completely gorgeous women all for me? You know, you both have the most enchanting eyes..."  
  
"Yeah, but, thing is, I'm not gay," said Aras.  
  
"Me either," said Lucrezia.  
  
"Well, crap," said Christina. "Maybe it is Hell after all."  
  
* * *  
  
Aboveground, the party remained in full swing, with a concentration of guests gathered around the dessert table. The conversation had moved to the somewhat weighty topic of the nature of reality, and whether or not any one of them could be dreaming all the odd Witchblade occurrences.  
  
"It'd be me, right, if it's anyone?" Pez said.  
  
"Nah," Danny replied. "If the Witchblade's part of the dream, it could be any of ours."  
  
"Well, Ian's the one who has duplicates," Mulder said. "That's psychologically significant."  
  
"Can't you all accept the idea of my viral consciousness continuing to infect all of you?" Gabriel broke in.  
  
"You mean Irons' viral consciousness?" asked Pez, slowly.  
  
"Yeah. What'd I say?"  
  
"Dammit!" Pez said, as Danny and Jake moved to finally distribute the betting pool cash among the winners.  
  
"You know, you could all be hooked up to machines right now, dreaming your life away," said an unfamiliar man in a black leather trench coat and black wraparound glasses. At his side stood a woman with short black hair, similarly attired.  
  
Everyone at the dessert bar looked at everyone else. They held mutual stares for a long beat, then as one, said, "NAAAAAH."  
  
"Oh well," the woman said. "C'mon Neo."  
  
"But I didn't even get to offer them the red pill or the blue pill," Neo said as the woman pulled him away.  
  
"Look, I'll save you all some time," Jake said. "Don't take the blue pills. They're bad news, trust me."  
  
Whatever Pez had been about to add to that was disrupted by a sizzling noise that filled the air over the mansion lawn. At first it hummed like a high-tension power line, but then the buzz grew louder and louder. *Something* bright and electric-looking crackled back and forth, whipsawing violently.  
  
Pez, armor still on, manifested the sword again, and each Nottingham drew theirs. Jackie Estacado couldn't do much, the Darkness having a serious problem with daylight, but he and Tommy Gallo each pulled guns, as did the cops. Then, in a blinding flash, the *something* widened, disgorging a cargo of four men in variously-colored jumpsuits, carrying ray guns in holsters on their backs.  
  
"Hey guys," said a woozy, grimy Peter Venkman, as he stood on shaky legs. "Hellooo nurse," he muttered, and pitched forward into Sara's arms. She retracted the blade just in time to catch him. The other Ghostbusters were less ambitious, content to sit up, slowly.  
  
"Hey," Danny said brightly, "Good to see you guys again! So, you must have taken out the big bad out there in the Netherworld, right?"  
  
"Well, I, for one, don't remember much," said Winston Zeddemore, "but I'm sure glad it's over, whatever it was."  
  
"Hmm. I, likewise, have fairly limited recall," said the blonde, Egon Spengler. "Ray? Peter?"  
  
"Me too, Kemosabe," Peter mumbled, and Ray nodded agreement.  
  
"Well, at any rate," Ian One said, "welcome back. You're just in time for dessert."  
  
"Man, am I glad Slimer isn't here," Peter said. Eventually, he and the others recovered their land legs, and made it to the dessert table, Ray calling in to Janine on the mansion phone.  
  
It should be noted at this point that none of the party guests were telepathic. Sara Pezzini was probably the closest, with the potential of being a true mind reader if she decided to take the blade that direction. The Ians Nottingham had certain maverick psychic gifts that included a connection to the wielder, but actual telepaths they weren't. And, though Irons, recuperating in his room, had many uncanny abilities, neither, truly, was he.  
  
This is a pity, for if there had been a telepath at the party, they might have caught the undercurrent running through the mind of one of the new arrivals. It was low and subliminal, but it was there, and it was fairly important. It repeated one simple phrase...  
  
//...kill the three who are one...kill the three who are one...kill the three who are one...kill the three who are one...//  
  
* * *  
  
NOT ENTIRELY THE END  
  
TMF  
  
* * *  
  
Endnotes and Extra Credits: Thanks, yet again, to AudreyCherie, TwilightMyst, and the usual suspects in the Delphi chat who hung around to brainstorm with me. Also, thanks to my regular reviewers; you all keep me going with this insanity. In other words, IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT! Anyway, as you might've guessed, I intend to keep going with this universe at least a little bit beyond the Season 2 finale. Since I'm not going to have the inspiration of a regular WB episode to keep me going, let me know what events and/or crossovers you might like to see, *via email* so as not to annoy our hosts. I have a pretty good idea where I'm going with the next installment, but after that, who knows? Also, the frequency will likely slow down as I work on other fic, but I intend to keep the humor-verse cooking at a low simmer, at least. Thanks again, guys! 


End file.
